


Treat me

by stilinskisoul



Category: House M.D., Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (Dark) Humor, Alternate Universe - No Werewolves, Doctor Stiles Stilinski, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, M/M, Medical Investigation, Police Officer Derek Hale, drug usage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-14
Updated: 2014-09-28
Packaged: 2018-02-17 08:55:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2303969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stilinskisoul/pseuds/stilinskisoul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is an intern at House's diagnostic department. Since their last solved case House is nowhere near Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, and has Stiles take care of his consultation hours. One day, though, Stiles is found by Cuddy, after the patient left, while he's faking his boss' signature on the papers. After that he's forbidden to do House's job and he has a hard time dealing with the extra amount of time he has earned, so he goes to the ambulance to find some work he can dig himself into. Cameron offers him to treat a police officer who was taken to Princeton-Plainsboro a little while ago with gunshot wounds.</p><p>However, it turns out that it has more to it than just simple gunshots.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ambulance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Stiles meeting the cop at the ambulance, another story of an interesting medical investigation starts at the diagnostic department with a lot of twists and unexpected occurrences in sake of finding the answer for the mysterious case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'ed, but I hope there aren't any mistakes in it.
> 
> Enjoy :)

Stiles doesn't have to hurry now, because they don't have a new patient at the moment. Their last one was sent out of Princeton-Plainsboro safe and sound two days ago, and ever since then he hasn't seen his boss' face. His colleagues have been busy with minor jobs, and he's been bound to be in charge at _House's_ private practice, because that's just how it works for that genius of a man. Of course, Cuddy got suspicious when she found everything well-documented and done in connection with House's consultation hours, and after one of the controls she entered the room, where it took place, only to find Stiles sitting on the bed with the papers in hand, faking House's signature on each of them.

Ever since then, he's been forbidden to take care of the people and do House's job instead of him. Currently Stiles' task, that was given to him by Cuddy, is to try to reach that man through his phone and pray him back into the hospital to do his work properly instead of having Stiles do it.

He is at the nurses' desk with a random person's file in hand, roaming over the lines idly with his eyes just to kill the time while his phone is plastered between his cheek and shoulder to keep it in place, waiting for the dialing tone to end and hear House speak on the other end of the line—which doesn't happen, just like in all of the cases of the other previous attempts he's done so far.

Stiles exhales a long breath and places the document back in its place before deciding to head to the ambulance. He needs to find something to do, even if just a quick job, otherwise he's most likely going to go nuts by the end of the day by pure boredom. He fixes the white medical gown on himself and picks up a stethoscope that he hangs in his neck before entering the ambulance. He looks around to see a few nurses dealing with all the patients. He spots Cameron and approaches her.

“Hey, Cameron,” he says. The woman doesn't even look at him, being too busy with removing broken pieces of glass from a man's skin with a tweezer.

“Stilinski,” she replies.

“Do you have something for me?”

“House is not back yet, is he?” she asks, her tone sapient. Stiles shakes his head.

“Nope. And he doesn't pick up his phone either.”

“And he's not going to do that if he doesn't have a good reason to,” she points out the obvious that Stiles knows as well.

“So do you have or don't have?” he insists, and she turns to face him with a smile on.

“Workaholic or just want something to distract yourself with?”

“Maybe both, maybe just the last,” Stiles shrugs and Cameron chuckles. She grabs the little metal bowl in which she put the glass pieces and dropped the tweezer in, then motions for Stiles to follow. They head to the supplies and she loads up on gauzes, cotton and antiseptic while talking. “A police officer was transited here a couple minutes ago. He was shot.”

“Where do I find him?” Stiles asks, already copying Cameron's movements and picking up every tool he needs to take care of the gunshots. The woman points behind him by tilting her head momentarily in the direction.

“There. Behind the curtain,” she says, then leaves for the former man to finish the treatment with taking care of the wounds, including a little stitching. Stiles arranges everything in his hands before taking off to the bed he was showed to go to. He tucks the curtain away and he immediately has to remind himself not to gawk.

Honestly, when he was told that a member of the force was shot, he expected anything but an arrest-worthily stunning man. He thought he would be faced by a little overweight donut-destroyer, who's in his late forties, but instead of that he was given an attractive man with firm tones and a sculpted body, who can't be older than twenty-six. He's been dreaming about this scenario to happen, in which he's treating someone guiltily perfect, but he's never thought nor dared to hope it would actually come true. Is this honestly his life?

The officer opens his eyes and raises his murderous gaze at him. Stiles braces himself and clears his throat, trying to ignore that look and the fact that somehow it makes him aroused in a slightly masochistic way, because that's just his luck—whenever he finds someone interesting that person _has to be_ someone intimidating. Like Lydia Martin whom he has oh so luckily fallen for.

“Let me take care of you, sir,” he says, his voice calm, surprisingly for himself. The cop doesn't react to it, only relaxes on the bed after pulling his shirt over his head. Stiles tugs the curtain back to its previous position, so they are hidden from other people's curious eyes. Stiles grabs the white rubber gloves and puts them on with a sharp snapping sound, then reaches for the cotton and tears a piece of it, which he drenches with the disinfectant. “This may hurt a little,” he says automatically before delicately touching the light puffy material to the hurt skin. Not even a hiss comes from the officer's direction.

The bullets had already been removed from the cop's torso before Stiles arrived, so his only task is to disinfect the area and wrap it up in gauzes and bandages. There is silence between them, only the haphazard sounds of the hospital invade their ears with all the phone ringings and a voice that says Wright MD is expected at the nurses' desk. Stiles breaks that silence.

“May I ask how you got shot?” he asks softly, standing up straight again after bending down to do his job. The officer growls in a low voice. It makes obvious for Stiles that his wound makes him anxious for some reason. He's not even expecting an answer anymore, but then his patient speaks up. However, he's giving an answer that surprises Stiles.

“I don't know.”

“How can you not know that?” he asks before he could think twice about it. He earns a glare from the cop that makes him swallow hard against a lump in his throat that got there two or three moments ago. The next second he's waving his hand frantically. “Never mind me, I just kinda lack a filter between my brain and mouth, you know.”

He goes for continuing the treatment, but the injured man speaks up again.

“I have no clue what happened. Suddenly I blacked out, then the next thing I know is that I'm taken to hospital.” Stiles furrows his eyebrows, but remains silent. That's strange.

“Did you black out after being shot or before that?”

“I'm not sure,” comes the response. That only makes Stiles even more confused. He pulls off the glove from his right hand and he fishes out his mobile from the pocket of his jeans.

“Wait a second, I need to make an important call.”

He distances himself from the bed and goes to an abandoned corner where he will more or less be able to hear what House has to say if he happens to pick up the phone this time. He sticks his hand on his ear while the other is next to his cell phone. Stiles waits until the dialing tone stops, then starts talking.

“House, I think I found a new case for us,” is all he says before heading back to his police officer to finish the treatment.


	2. Teardrop

“A shot man blacked out? You called me back to the hospital for this, moron? There is no mystery,” House points out to Stiles in a harsh, chiding tone. He's just been humiliated in front of the whole diagnostic team for God knows how many time by his boss, but he's getting used to it enough to stand his ground.

“He doesn't remember how it happened. After leaving the message I asked him further questions and it turned out that he hardly ever gets shot,” Stiles says defensively. House frowns at him while rubbing his right leg instinctively. After two or three seconds he removes his gaze from Stiles and darts it at the dark gray rug that covers the office.

“That doesn't prove anything,” House demands. “Every cop gets shot from time to time.”

“Would it have been the better choice to leave him there just like that?” Stiles snaps. “I thought our priority was healing and making sure _no one_ has further latent sicknesses by investigating it over until we're convinced with one out of the two choices,” he crosses his arms over his chest and gives House a meaningful look. His boss is silent for a short while, moving his lips in awkward ways as he's thinking it through. Silence sets in in the meantime.

“Alright. What's your theory?” Stiles' face lights up at that question.

“It obviously has something to do with his brain. Most likely it was caused by Multiple Sclerosis or a tumor in his brain. I was planning on giving him a CT and lumbar puncture.” House nods and motions in the general direction of the glass door with his hand.

“Good ideas. Not good for the patient. Go ahead,” he says and Stiles goes for the door. He puts his hand on the handle, but before he could leave the office, House speaks up again. “But remember: if you're wrong, you're fired.” Stiles swallows hard, but nods anyway and approaches the room the cop is housed at the moment.

The travel in the elevator seems to be agonizingly long for him. He leaves it at the floor their patient is and heads towards his room. The door opens instantly when he goes near it, and the man looks at him when he enters the area. Stiles gives him a reassuring smile that is just a little nervous, partly because of the situation he got himself into, and partly because he still finds the man incredibly and ridiculously attractive.

“I need to do a few tests on you,” he says, then furrows his eyebrows. “Mr. Hale, right?” The cop takes a few moments to nod slowly.

“And you would be,” he says, his green gaze already finding and reading Stiles' ID card that he has clipped on his white gown. “Mr. Stilinski?”

“That's me,” he grins at the man.

“What tests do you have to do?” he asks, resting his head back on the huge pillow. Stiles holds his hand towards the other, who accepts it and he slowly helps him to sit up.

“Just a CT and a lumbar puncture,” he answers.

“I'm not a vulnerable eggshell, you know,” the man says suddenly as he lets go of Stiles. When he looks at the cop with a confused expression the man volunteers to explain. “I was just shot. I can walk by myself.” Stiles nods slowly, feeling embarrassed for some reason.

“Right. Follow me then, please.”

Even the green hospital gown looks good on Hale's features, Stiles discovers. He leads the man to the CT machine first. He stays there in case anything occurred during the testing, but everything goes smoothly. When they are done, they go back to Hale's room to get over with the lumbar puncture, too.

~

“There is no tumor in his brain,” Stiles informs the others according to the results the CT gave. House looks at him and narrows his eyes.

“You're too calm, so I assume there's more to it,” he says and Stiles gives him a half smile. He hands another paper to him about the results of the second test.

“As you can see, the amount of his proteins and leukocytes are increased.”

“That means encephalitis,” Chase, who's sitting at the desk, points out immediately while quitting playing with his pen. Stiles nods.

“Indeed,” he looks back at House. “Told you it was _something_.” House looks at him, but that doesn't vanish the smug smirk from his face. Not even if those insightful blue eyes are cold and clearly uninterested.

“Come on, don't be so happy about someone having an encephalitis. Or are you a sociopath?” House asks in a faked pitying tone. Stiles is fast to react.

“What would you do if I was?” Stiles asks challengingly.

“The question is what _you_ would do after hearing my answer, in case you're actually a sociopath.”

“How about letting me know your answer and see where it goes?” Stiles offers. The lightest, vaguest hint of a smile appears on House's thin lips.

“Go and give him antivirals,” he says, changing the subject. “Also, make a test to find out if he has syphilis and check his body for potential available marks of a sting from a tick,” he orders. Stiles doesn't have to be told twice—he's already worried enough for Hale. He leaves the office, his mind too busy with the fact of the serious illness the cop has, to wonder why House has him do all the work.

He doesn't find Hale in his room, so he has to go and look for him. Stiles is more worried about the man now that he knows what his problem is. He can't just let the other walk around by his will wherever he wants to wander, because if another blackout occurs he can't be there immediately and anything could happen to Hale while the time's ticking by with Stiles searching for him everywhere frantically.

Finally, he notices their patient sitting at the couch next to the artificial waterfall with a woman tagging along. She's wearing a black skirt suit with matching high-heels, and her dark hair is perfectly straight. Stiles approaches them, but when he's near enough he overhears their conversation and if anything, that brings him to a stop.

“I'm afraid I'll lose my job,” comes Hale's quiet voice. The woman strokes his upper arm soothingly before her hand settles on his shoulder and squeezes it encouragingly.

“I'm sure it's nothing serious,” she says softly. Her voice is reassuring enough to even calm Stiles down for a few seconds. But then his mind takes one step backwards and the actual situation falls back down on him like an unbearable weight. “You'll be just fine. I'm sure in two days you're going to be chasing criminals again.” Stiles has to take several deep breaths before walking up to the two of them. His mind is spinning painfully, but he manages a smile.

“Mr. Hale,” he says. The man nods to him, then motions towards the sophisticated-looking woman sitting next to him.

“This is my elder sister, Laura.” Stiles reaches his hand out for a shake. The grip Laura gives is firm, giving it away to Stiles that she's a determined person.

“Did you figure out anything?” she asks. To Stiles' biggest surprise she didn't begin with the usual 'he's alright, right?'-type of questions. He clears his throat and adjusts his gown before replying.

“Yes,” he says. The siblings' attention is availably doubled at that. “However, you won't be happy with the results,” he continues gingerly. Even without his amber gaze dropping lower from the line of the two Hale's eyes, he can clearly catch a glimpse of Laura's hand as it twitches and closes tighter around Derek's. Stiles' mouth has gone dry. “According to the lumbar puncture, Mr. Hale's leukocyte and protein number is higher than normal.”

“What does that mean?” Laura asks. Her voice is calm, but Stiles can sense the vibrating anxiousness under the surface of it. Stiles exchanges a look with Derek before closing his eyes apologetically for a few moments, then opening them again to connect it with the siblings'.

“It means that Mr. Hale has encephalitis,” he says hoarsely, in the calmest tone he could muster.

And this is the point where Laura loses her perfect mask of the sophisticated woman she is showing to the world all the time—however, it perishes silently, and is showed in a form of a teardrop streaming down her cheek. On the other hand, though, Derek handles it exactly how a strong man would do. He even has capacity to wrap an arm around Laura and pull her close to him to comfort her, but she refuses it, being a proud woman. Derek's face is expressionless, and he doesn't look at Stiles anymore. His green gaze is fixed on Laura, and nothing else.

Stiles decides to leave them. He assumes that's the best thing he could do. What's more, he inexplicably feels guilt as if Derek's illness was his fault and his heart squeezes painfully in his chest at that thought. He goes for the medicine he has to give Derek, then approaches his room to find a nurse undoing the covers on Derek's hospital bed.

“Erica, what are you doing?” he asks, putting the antiviral on the nightstand beside the bed. The blonde girl looks at him and gives him a smile. They've known each other for a long time. The two of them attended the same high school in Beacon Hills and also, they went to the same medical university afterwards, but while Erica was studying to become a nurse, Stiles took classes in sake of straightforwardly becoming a doctor.

“Changing his covers, if it wasn't obvious,” she says in a playful tone. Stiles can only put on a momentary-long smile after his previous experience with the two Hales back from a few minutes ago. “Is something wrong?” she furrows her eyebrows and puts down the blanket that's halfway of being freed. She walks right in front of Stiles and looks at him with a worried expression.

“No, nothing,” he lies, and asks whatever comes in his mind first just to change the subject. “Why are you changing those?” he nods in the direction of the bed. Erica sighs and goes back to finish her work.

“He's been going a lot to the toilet. Last time he couldn't make it there, though, so his vomit ended up on the bed.”

Stiles acknowledges that with a nod, then sits down at the bed, that's currently lack of a sheet, to wait for Derek to come back to the room.

~

In the end, Stiles has to wait for one and a half hours for Derek to migrate back here, and to take his rightful place at his now clear, freshly covered bed. Stiles instantly jumps up from lying and nuzzling into the pillow to leave the furniture to give it to Derek. The silence between them is painfully deafening for Stiles, especially with the glass walls closing out every noise, but this time he can't bring himself to break it. He places the plastic pocket of antiviral on the hook above the bed and injects the other end in Derek's vein. To his surprise and relief, the cop speaks up.

“How bad is my sickness?” Stiles looks at him. Derek's gaze is darted firmly at the ceiling, not at him. His face is still empty of all emotions. It makes Stiles' heart twist amidst his ribs and sternum.

“We'll have to figure that out with an MRI later. But right now the priority is to find out what caused the illness in the first place.” Derek just nods, his eyes blank and emotionless.

~

Stiles arrives to the restaurant twenty minutes late. He rushes in and looks around with impatient movements, searching for his dinner partners. He spots them in one of the hidden corners, at a dimly lit box with a table and six chairs around it. He approaches them, taking off his jacket on his way.

“Hey, Stiles, long time no see.”

“Scott,” he grins widely, and after placing his jacket on the back of a chair he claimed his, he hugs his childhood friend above the table tightly. “Sorry for being late, but my boss likes to give his team all the work.”

“We know, dude, everyone knows House's name,” Scott waves it off and sits back down, giving Allison a kiss on the cheek. Stiles smiles and takes his place at the table as well.

“How are you?” he asks, obviously from Allison. The girl beams at him with a shining smile.

“The baby's due on 14th February,” she answers. “I'm perfectly fine, and so is my baby boy. Only two more months to go,” she says, dropping her eyes at her extended belly before rubbing it gently with delicate movements of her hands. Stiles chuckles.

“So he's going to be a Valentine's boy, huh. How do you know if the baby's going to be a boy? You had it checked?” Stiles asks.

“We _don't_ know. Allison doesn't want to check it just yet. She wants to wait until he's born,” Scott explains.

“That's so cute,” Stiles coos. He calls for a waiter to give his order in the meantime, then devotes his attention to his old friends again.

“And how's your internship at Princeton?” Allison asks. Stiles shrugs. Honestly, he doesn't really want to talk about that right now, because he's a hundred percent sure he's going to ruin the mood with that.

“I don't think that's a fitting subject at the moment,” he says. Scott frowns and gives him a worried look.

“Did something happen?” Stiles shakes his head and picks up his napkin to keep his fingers busy with something. He stubbornly keeps his eyes fixed on the tan paper.

“No,” he responds a little too late for the other two to believe it. Besides, they know him well.

“Tell us about it,” Allison urges. Stiles sighs.

“I really don't think this is the appropriate time to—”

“Stiles, don't expect me to leave my _best friend_ tonight without talking this over with him,” Scott demands with a serious glimpse in his still adorable chestnut-colored puppy eyes. “Something is up, that's for sure. Your face gives you away easily, you know.”

“I've never been the one good at poker faces now, was I?” Stiles gives them a half smile, making an attempt to change the route the conversation took off to, but failing miserably at it.

“Stiles,” Allison says in a warn and he throws his hands up in a defensive manner, as if he was surrendering himself.

“Okay, okay, got it. So thing is that today I went to the ambulance to ask Cameron to give me a job. She offered me to heal a police officer with gunshot wounds. I was talking to him during the treatment process and I figured something more was behind his injures. I called House again, but I knew he wasn't going to pick up his phone, so I went for leaving a message anyway. He showed up in the hospital within an hour, then humiliated me in front of my co-workers, but I'm kinda used to it, so it's never mind, actually,” he remains silent for a while, because his order arrives. When the waiter is gone and out of hearing range, he continues. “I made a few tests on him and it turned out he has encephalitis,” he swallows, his voice dryer and weaker than ever. “I had to tell him while his elder sister was there.”

“Oh, dear baby,” Allison says and reaches over the table to stroke his hand soothingly. Stiles isn't surprised by the nickname he was addressed by—he blames it on the raging hormones in Allison's body. Thanks to them she's way more sensitive to emotional issues than any ordinary person. Stiles manages a smile at her.

“Thanks, but I'm fine. We just need to figure out what caused his illness, because there wasn't any bite marks by ticks on his body and his syphilis test was negative,” Stiles says. To his fortune, Scott switches the subject to something else.

“We're staying here in New Jersey until the baby's born,” he informs Stiles. His face lights up at that news.

“Really? Are you serious?” he asks, excitedly darting his eyes between Scott and Allison. The couple nods at the same time with a smile on their faces.

“Yes. And I'm going to go to controls at Princeton-Plainsboro,” Allison says.

“Oh my God, that sounds so good,” Stiles grins. “Give me a call whenever you're there.”

“Definitely,” she promises, and Scott places his hand on her belly to stroke it softly. Stiles has never seen such an expression on Scott's face before. It's a mixture of responsibility-consciousness, fatherly protection, undying love and slight possessiveness. Scott is now officially a grown-up man.

~

The next day their team sits down to figure out the next steps. They need to justify Derek's encephalitis, but it most likely has to be that. However, when Stiles randomly interjects in their conversation that Derek's bedsheets were changed, everything takes a 180 degrees turn.

“You idiot!” House yells at him. “If anything happens, you have to tell us immediately.” Stiles swallows and nods. He keeps his eyes on his boss as he limps to the white board, grabs the black felt and starts to write with it. The words 'blackout' and 'puke' can be read. “Come on, gimme ideas,” he orders, turning back to face his team. Stiles fidgets with his ID card while the others are either leafing through their patient's files, playing with their pens or simply sitting. “What could these two indicate?” he asks, pointing at the white board with this stick.

“Maybe we should figure out what triggered the vomit first,” Stiles offers. The others look at him.

“What do you have in mind?” Chase asks.

“I think that these two symptoms are not even related. I mean, we should prove that these actually _have to do_ something with each other first. Maybe we're missing something.”

“What would we be missing?” Foreman asks, folding his fingers together awhile. He's leaning back in his chair comfortably while he's keeping his eyes on Stiles. The boy shrugs.

“I don't know. It just came to my mind that loss of water in the body can also result increased leukocyte and protein number.”

“That's right,” Thirteen agrees. “We don't yet have proof of his encephalitis, we just assumed he would have one, because the signs were obvious.” House thinks it through quickly, then nods slowly.

“Chatterbox, you go and ask the patient about it.”

“I'm not a chatterbox,” he points out.

“Would you prefer 'Sociopath'?” House offers generously. Stiles frowns.

“You have no evidence.”

“But I do have about you talking a lot. Now go or I'm going to have to figure out a third nickname for you.” Stiles is immediately up on his feet. He knows House enough to be aware that he will _definitely_ not like the name he would be given. In a matter of seconds, he's out of the office and the session they regularly have.

“Why did we think it was something serious, again?” Chase asks, frowning. He's been clicking his pen, but House steps next to him and puts his hand on his to stop him.

“Because a kid made us think it was something serious.”


	3. Promise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, there is _a lot of_ fluff in this chapter. Like, pinky, whipped-creamed, flittery-glittery thingy. And House has his own scene to shine and just be himself.
> 
> Still unbeta'ed.
> 
> Enjoy :)

“Did your nausea come suddenly or you have an idea on what could have indicated it?” Stiles asks. He's sitting beside Derek's bed with a notepad and a pen in his hand. His phone is buzzing in his pocket but he couldn't care less about it. Whoever that is, they can wait. The most important thing right now is to find an evidence that Derek doesn't have encephalitis. A bittersweet smile appears on the cop's lips and he tears his green gaze away from the note in Stiles' hand to dart it at the ceiling.

“I wouldn't have thought I'd be on the other end of an interrogation once,” he says in a cynic tone. Stiles gives him a half smile.

“Everything should be started sooner or later,” he shrugs, earning an involuntary smile from Derek. Seeing him smile lifts his spirits. “So which one?”

“First option,” Derek says. Stiles takes a note of it.

“Tell me about it.” Derek groans.

“Now it feels like a freaking talk with a psychiatrist.” Stiles raises one shoulder apologetically.

“I know I'm awful, but bear with me, please. It's really very important,” he says genuinely. Derek looks at him, catching the truly honest ringing in Stiles' tone. He sighs softly and begins answering.

“I had been vomiting for a while. It started not long after you treated my wounds. But I think it was caused by that damned chicken I ate for breakfast. It was a leftover and did taste a little weird, but I thought it was because of the coffee I drank previously.” Stiles swallows.

“So you're not puking anymore, then?”

“No,” Derek shakes his head, then looks at Stiles with a questioning look, his eyebrows furrowed. “What does this mean?”

“It means that you most likely don't have encephalitis,” he says, practically jumping up from his spot in anticipation. “We need to do an MRI.”

“Wait,” Derek says, and that makes him halt. His feet practically root themselves into the floor of the hospital. He turns around so he's facing the other again. He doesn't say anything, but the expression on his face basically requests him to go ahead and talk. “Do you have any other ideas?” Stiles considers his answer momentarily.

“We're not clueless,” he says carefully. Derek glares at him and literally snarls at him, which sends a jolt of coldness down his spine, making his skin grow goosebumps.

“Don't give me a vague answer. Do you _have_ or _don't have_?” Derek pushes. Stiles sighs, slowly exhaling the air from his lungs.

“We do. But I don't want to share just yet, at least not until one of them has a proof. I don't want to...” he trails off and looks down at the ground guiltily. He's acting like a five-year-old who's being scolded by his dad. However, Derek doesn't need any further explanations to know what Stiles couldn't bring himself to say out loud. He just nods and lets Stiles go.

Back in the office he finds the team, but not House.

“He left a while ago,” Chase informs Stiles. “He said there is nothing important for him to stay in the hospital, because the patient is obviously alright.”

“But he hasn't heard the new informations yet,” Stiles says, puzzled. Foreman shrugs.

“He's just like this. You'll get used to it,” he assures, then points at the note in Stiles' hands with his chin. “Mind sharing what you have?” The boy grins and nods excitedly.

“Hale told me that his spew was caused by simple indigestion,” he puts the notepad on the glass desk for the others to read his handwriting, too.

“Which means,” Thirteen speaks up, continuing Stiles' sentence as if it wasn't finished. “the amount of his proteins and leukocytes were increased by the loss of water in his organism and if we did another lumbar puncture his numbers would most likely be normal.” A collective nod arrives from the three boys to that statement.

“So what are we left with?” Foreman asks.

“Multiple Sclerosis,” Chase says right away.

“Let's do the MRI. That's going to be a proof for either against the encephalitis or the MS,” Foreman points out.

“Let's go,” Thirteen says.

Chase goes with her and Stiles is left in the office with Foreman to wait for the results of the testing.

~

In the meantime, Stiles decides to go to the canteen to have lunch. Foreman has to go to deal with his own consultation hours at the neurological department and also, to inspect Thirteen afterwards.

During eating, Stiles is approached by Chase.

“The MRI is negative to both encephalitis and Multiple Sclerosis.”

“What else could indicate a blackout?” Stiles asks. Chase shrugs.

“I've been thinking about that and I assume it was an epileptic seizure,” he suggests. Stiles thinks it through before nodding.

“Let's do the indication test after lunch,” he offers, earning a nod from the blonde ladies' man. He takes off to the salvers to pick out his food, but stops halfway and turns around to tell Stiles from a few meters' distance. “He was missing you, by the way.” Stiles is sure his cheeks turned _at least_ pink at that. Chase grins at him and approaches the trays, while Stiles stands up and leaves the canteen for a control room.

When he enters it, he immediately halts and the rest of his sentence is drowned in him.

“Hey, guys it was fast to—” he turns around quickly with flailing limbs all over. “I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt,” he blurts out. Scott chuckles and shakes his head.

“No problem, dude, you're not someone who's not allowed to see it,” he says. Stiles slowly calms down and turns back to face them. “Besides, you've seen me countless times making out with Allison,” he chuckles and Stiles frowns.

“Thanks, Scotty, that really explains it all why I shouldn't be embarrassed,” Stiles says sarcastically, but Scott doesn't seem to get it, considering the way he constantly has his dopey smile on. Never mind, though, Stiles has given up on praying Scott to recognize sarcasm when he's addressed by it. “Anyway, what did the doctor say?” he asks, approaching them.

“Nothing yet,” Allison says. “Do you want to touch him?” she offers. Stiles looks at her face with wide eyes. “Come on, Stiles, don't look at me like I asked you to help me give birth to it.” Scott snickers before wrapping his arms around his girlfriend protectively and placing a kiss on her right temple.

“When is the doctor arriving?”

“Actually,” Scott starts quietly. “He's already here.”

Stiles spins on his heels, thinking the expected man arrived without him hearing anything from the door opening and closing—but there is nobody behind him and only the three of them is in the room. His eyes widen, half in fright, half in surprise.

“No, no freaking way,” he says, shaking his head frantically. “No way in Hell that I'm gonna do it. I'm not a rightful doctor yet, and I don't yet have the license to do that.”

“Come on, Stiles,” Allison pleads. “You've done a bunch of tests already, it's like you're already a doctor you're just waiting for your paper that justifies it.” Stiles is still shaking his head.

“Besides,” Scott says. “We want you to see it first hand from yourself. And this is our first control in Princeton-Plainsboro,” he adds as a matter of fact. Stiles bites his bottom lip and sucks on it hard for a while, considering his choices.

“Did you tell anyone you're here?” The couple shakes their heads in a denial. Stiles inhales slowly and exhales loudly. “Lay down, please,” he commands softly in a velvet smooth tone, making a beeline to the cupboard to pick the items he needs. Allison giggles.

“Don't sound so official,” she chides playfully. Scott helps her to lay down on the bed and push her clothes out of the way. Stiles puts on a pair of rubber gloves, then squirts a little amount of gel on Allison's belly before reaching for the ultrasound machine. He delicately traces it over on her skin, his eyes on the screen awhile. “So? How does my baby boy look like?” Stiles smiles, then moves the ultrasound away a little before turning the display towards Allison to take a look at it. The moment she glances at the black-blue screen, she hiccups a sob.

“That's his head,” Stiles points at the monitor. He gently moves the machine to show the whole body of the baby. He sneaks a peek at Scott. He's purely fascinated by the view and he's gawking at the screen, like he couldn't believe he was about to become a father, or if this was the evidence for him to realize he's turning into a responsible parent in two mere months. Stiles hides a faint smile and keeps showing them their baby.

~

“Any idea for a name yet?” Stiles asks them as he sees the couple out of the room.

“We have a lot in mind, but we're strongly leaning to Dylan,” Allison informs him with a smile. Stiles halts at that and stutters.

“B-but,” he starts clumsily. “That name would have been given to me if my mom didn't love his father so much.”

“We know,” Scott assures. “You were the one to tell it to me during History class when we were twelve, after all.” Stiles can't help, but let a nostalgic smile stretch out on his face. He ducks his head, being a little shy for some reason. When he raises his eyes back at his friends, he can see Scott winking at him. “See you soon, then.”

“Yeah, definitely,” Stiles nods and waves for them. He keeps his amber gaze on them, watching as Scott fixes the knitted scarf around Allison's neck. When they are out of sight, Stiles migrates to the diagnostic team's office.

~

Within an hour, they give a call to House with the result of the epileptic indication test in their hands. The phone is placed on the middle of the glass table and it is hands-freed so everyone can hear House's voice.

“Call me when something relevant happens,” he chides his team. “I don't care about negative test but the tracks those lead us to the solution.” There is a short pause before he speaks again. “Quit writing on my white board, doctor Robert Chase.” The blonde man's hand stops over the board in an instant and turns around to look at the phone with a suspicious expression, his eyebrows furrowed.

“How did you—” he starts to ask, but House interrupts.

“Thirteen is the one leafing the documents all the time, and I can hear her doing that right now. Foreman is obviously sitting at his place. Oh, I would like to take notice to him right now that he should have that chair changed, because it's awfully creaking. And Chatterbox wouldn't have the guts to write on my board. Yet.” Chase opens his mouth to say something, but House continues. “And I can't hear the obnoxious clicking of your pen that you do quite often lately.” And with that, he ends the call, leaving the team alone, who are ogling each other with blinking eyes.

~

“See you tomorrow,” Thirteen smiles at Stiles before leaving the locker room. Stiles collapses on the bench with a sigh and runs his fingers through his hair. His mind is spinning with Derek's case, but a soothing memory comes in the picture, like a haven, and that makes him smile. He shakes his head in a disbelieving manner with that grin still on.

“I can't believe it, buddy,” he mumbles to himself. The fact that Scott and Allison are more or less naming their child after him has lit up his day. And he knows for sure that the baby is going to be called Dylan, because before turning the screen around to let the other two see the baby, too, he searched for an evidence in connection with the gender—and Allison's motherly senses are beyond perfect.

Stiles leaves the lockers after ten more minutes. He momentarily glances at himself in the mirror, makes a face at the sight, then decides to visit Derek before leaving the hospital. He finds the man laying in the bed with a book in his hand. He looks up at the sound of the door opening.

Stiles isn't entirely sure what to do, but he assumes going with a wave of hand as a greeting is always a good start, so he does just that. He earns a nod in return from Derek, then he looks around in the room.

“Do you want me to tug the blackout curtains away?” he offers, pointing at the said objects. The cop looks up at him.

“No, thank you. A nurse has just closed them.”

“But it's snowing now,” Stiles says, and it makes Derek look at the curtains.

“Is that so.” The sentence sounds more like a statement than a question. Stiles can tell the man is considering his choices right now, so he's waiting as patiently as he can—to tell the truth, he's never really been a patient person. In the meantime he also tries to ignore how hot he starts to feel in his light gray fabric jacket and baby blue knitted scarf around his neck. “Open them then, please,” he ends up saying. Stiles nods and steps to the window to tug the curtains away gently.

“How are you feeling?” he asks after he finished and turned to face Derek again. The other shrugs.

“Honestly, I've had better times. I'd even risk to say I felt a thousand times better when I was shot,” he laughs dryly. Stiles ducks his head to catch a glimpse of the title of the book. Of course, being a police officer, Derek has insightful eyes and notices Stiles' curiosity, so he raises the book a little to let the boy read what is written on the cover. 'The Firm – John Grisham' it reads.

“I like that book,” he says, approaching Derek's bed slowly.

“Do you have a favorite?” Stiles thinks for a short while.

“I love a lot of books, but if I really had to highlight one, I'd definitely say it's _Painkiller_ by Steven Spruill.”

“What do you like about it so much?”

“The whole thing,” Stiles grins. “Its system is perfectly set up, like a machine or something. It keeps you excited all the time and also, your heart is beating fast because of fright as well. It's a really great thriller. And I think it can also be considered a noir. Oh, it's a medical investigation story, by the way. The author himself also has a PhD in Medical Studies.”

“Similar to what your department does?” A smile is playing at the corner of Derek's lips. Stiles shakes his head.

“Nope,” he says. “It has the police involved and there are pretty morbid homicides. They are searching for an actual mass murderer, not an illness.”

“I've never heard of it before.”

“Because it's an old book. I'm not even sure you can find it in an antique store. But hey, I can bring it to you,” he offers, then points at the Grisham book Derek is holding in his hands currently. “You're almost at the end of that one anyway.”

“Isn't that a problem for you?”

“I wouldn't have offered if it was, right?” Stiles smiles, and Derek ducks his head involuntarily to hide his grin. Stiles eyes him for a while before checking his wristwatch. “I need to go,” he says, although that is the last thing he wants to do right now. He doesn't want to leave Derek. He wants to grab him and shove him in his bag to keep him for himself and cuddle him during the night. And Stiles is definitely _not_ a creeper, okay? He's just... possessive. And he just has his needs.

“Alright,” comes Derek's response. When Stiles gets disappointed, he has to realize that he was half expecting Derek to try to convince him to stay for a little longer. He doesn't know why he thought it would actually happen. “Good night.”

“To you too,” Stiles nods. However, he's standing still, not making a move. Derek quirks an eyebrow and opens his mouth to ask why he's staying, but Stiles beats him to it. “I promise I will heal you, Mr. Hale.”

He connects their eyes and digs his amber gaze deeply into Derek's green one. The silence lasts for at least twenty steady heartbeats before Derek's voice breaks it in a quiet, tender tone.

“Just call me Derek.”

Stiles grins at him in a bliss. He's pretty sure his happiness couldn't be more obvious than it is now.

“Stiles,” he says, then leaves the room for the outdoors.

It is a dark night; the clouds are heavy with snow, that have fallen fitfully when the wind lulled.


	4. Anchor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'ed. And there is a fluffy Sterek scene in it.
> 
> Enjoy! :)

The next morning the very first thing Stiles does is visiting Derek. It has been snowing since Stiles recognized it last night and informed Derek about it, so currently the streets are a complete mess and Stiles had a really hard time driving to the hospital.

After entering the building, he makes a beeline to Derek's room, fishing out the book from his bag on his way there. A wide grin is shining on his face, which he tried to wipe off, but failed miserably at it, so he ended up accepting the fact Derek might get a hint of Stiles' attraction towards his glorious self.

When he enters Derek's room, he realizes that the man is still asleep, so he tiptoes over to the nightstand to place the book on it without a noise, careful not to wake Derek. However, when he turns to leave, he hears mumbling behind himself in a low voice that is raspy by the morning daze.

“Stiles?” Stiles immediately spins around on his heels to face Derek, not caring about the fact the man is going to see his rosy cheeks and nose those were the vulnerable victims of the biting cold air outdoors, giving away that Stiles came to visit him first before anything else—not that his outfit isn't a good hint, too.

“Morning,” he beams. “Sorry for waking you up.” Derek shakes his head. “I just brought the book I promised yesterday.” At that sentence the cop instinctively looks at the nightstand beside the bed. His body twitches, then his casually calm expression changes in a heartbeat. His facial expression turns into a mixture of anxiety, confusion and fright. He looks up at Stiles with wide eyes, fear gleaming in them. Stiles frowns. “What happened?”

“I can't move my arm.”

~

“What can cause paralysis and blackout?” comes House's voice from the hand-freed telephone.

“Later he lost consciousness, too,” Stiles inserts.

“It still appears to me as epilepsy,” Thirteen says. “The symptoms fit together; the bl—”

“His indicative epileptic test was negative,” Chase interrupts. “No matter how fast the lights were flashing, no seizure occurred,” he says, looking at Stiles as if requesting for confirmation without words. Stiles nods.

“Indeed.”

“I'm surprised that doctor Chase isn't writing on my board nor clicking his pen now,” interjects House randomly. Everyone gives a shocked look to the phone.

“House, we're trying to figure out a diagnose here! How on Earth do you know what we are doing anyway?” Foreman chides him harshly.

“To your _un_ spoken question: the answer is _no_ , I don't have any cameras in the office,” he says. When he speaks up again, his voice is coming in stereo, making the others dart their gazes at the glass door through which House is entering the room at the moment. “I'm just an insightful observer,” he finishes, ending the call by closing his phone. He looks around among his four doctors, not caring about their surprise nor Foreman's disapproving face. He furrows his eyebrows and makes a wiseacre, yet sad face. “Oh, don't give me a remorse, just go ahead and continue your passionate debate. Don't mind me here,” he says, dropping a pill of Vicodine in his mouth. That reminds Stiles to take his own Adderall amount later.

“I say we should take him to an EEG test,” Thirteen finishes anyway.

“Alright,” Chase says, then motions for Stiles to follow along. The kid points at himself.

“Me?” Chase nods. “Why me?”

“Do you need a reason? Or I thought our most important task was to save lives,” the blonde man says. The sarcasm in his voice is literally burning Stiles, but he's not someone to feel hurt by that, so he just stands and follows the doc.

~

Stiles approaches Derek's room. His hands are sunk in the pockets of his white medical gown, that is following the movements of his body as he's walking in his typical method on the corridors of Princeton-Plainsboro, humming awhile. When he enters the room, he halts and turns around in an instant.

“Oh my God, I'm so sorry,” he babbles out. “I didn't know you had a visitor. I'll just go and come back later,” he rambles, already on his way out.

“Stiles,” Derek says. His voice brings Stiles to a stop and urges him to turn around and look back at the officer. “It's okay. Whatever you have to say is nothing she couldn't hear, too,” he says, looking at the girl sitting beside his bed, before adding. “She's my younger sister after all.” Taking that as her cue, the girl stands up and lopes in front of Stiles with elegant movements. He wonders if every member of the Hale family have won the Perfect Phenotype Contest, because each one of them is just unfairly attractive and unconsciously sophisticated. Nature is a whore.

“Cora Hale,” the girl says, giving Stiles a modest half smile with her full lips. The corners of Stiles' mouth quirk up at that action as well. He's read about it in a book before that it's a natural reaction of your body to a smile—whenever you're smiled at, you do just that instinctively.

“Stiles Stilinski,” he says, accepting the hand the girl is offering for a shake. Her grip is just as firm as Laura's was, Stiles notes in his mind.

“So? Have you figured anything out yet?” she asks, ogling Stiles with her huge hazel eyes. The boy is considering whether if he should nod or shake his head, but eventually ends up shrugging.

“You could say that I guess,” Stiles says, unsure. “Actually, we found out what is _not_ your illness,” he continues genuinely. “The EEG test was negative to epilepsy, though what happened in the morning is called a tonic epileptic seizure.” Derek makes a face at that.

“So you're telling me I have epilepsy, but actually not? That just doesn't make sense,” Derek exhales the last few words in a frustrated method, letting his head to fall back onto the enormous pillow he has while rubbing his forehead with a hand. Stiles is only capable of giving him an apologetic look.

“We don't yet have an idea what it could be caused by,” he admits quietly, peeking up at Derek while his face is ducked down. He practically looks like an innocent six-year-old whose purpose is to get away without being scolded.

“Just try to make up your minds soon. I couldn't stand losing him, too,” Cora says, and Derek shushes her.

“Cora, they are doing their best here, okay? Don't sound so rude,” Derek chides her, yet not harshly at all. Moreover, his voice is nowhere to be considered coarse, it's rather gentle in that of a matter. Stiles can't help but smile how much Derek looks like Cora's father right now instead of her elder brother. The girl nods obediently, as if she was lower-ranked than Derek in a non-existing hypothetical hierarchy. Like a pack of wolves with Derek being the Alpha.

Stiles doesn't have a clue where that thought came from.

“I'm leaving now,” Cora says. She glances at her big brother with a worried look, but the man hisses.

“Don't look at me like that,” he groans, putting his hand on his sister's shoulder. “I'm going to be okay. Keep that in mind. Stiles and the other members of his team are going to heal me. They are going to find a cure for whatever this is,” he says. His green gaze is searching for Cora's, but the girl refuses to requite the look. “Look at me,” Derek continues. Once she's looking at him, he goes on. “I'm not at all worried, see? If I'm not worried, then you shouldn't be either. Got it?” The answer is a silent nod. “Good. I'm not afraid to let you go, then.”

“See you, big bro,” she says, placing a kiss on his forehead before saying goodbye to Stiles as well and leaving the room. Stiles walks next to Derek's bed while his eyes are constantly fixed on the door that has just closed. He turns to Derek with a wide grin, pleased to know that he's not afraid of whatever is going on in his body, but his enthusiasm vanishes in a heartbeat.

“Jesus,” Derek literally _whines_ , already burying his face into Stiles' white gown that he grips tightly and holds onto seemingly desperately, inhaling the boy's scent deeply into his lungs. Stiles flushes bright red.

“Um, hey,” he manages out in a weak, shaky tone. He's sure even the tip of his ears have the color of a crayfish by now, considering how fast his heart is beating all of a sudden. He assumes his best choice is to wrap his arms around Derek and comfort him wholeheartedly. Stiles murmurs in a soothing tone. “Like you said before, it's going to be okay. I promised to fix you up yesterday, didn't I?” he asks the rhetorical question as his hand starts wandering on Derek's neck, slowly but eventually sliding into his hair, losing in the dark strands of hair. He's rubbing the man's scalp to calm him. Derek leans into him and relaxes into his touch, making Stiles smile. Derek is acting like an affectionate puppy after all—or wolf, in that of a matter.

“I know,” Derek whispers the words after an amount of time has ticked by. “That's what gives me peace in the first place,” he says, nuzzling his cheek into Stiles' soft cotton sweatshirt. “That is what made you my safe haven in this hellhole. That's why you are my _Anchor_ now.” Stiles' heart is straightforwardly on its way to beat itself to death. He is honestly clueless how to react to that statement, especially with the tender-hearted rubbing of Derek's face against his belly. His fingers are playing with the man's dark strands in a nervous way by now. To his luck, he doesn't have to think of a method to break the silence, because Derek does so. “Cora told me not to be afraid of losing my job, because my uncle, Peter is a successful businessman, but it's not just about money, you know,” he tells Stiles. When the boy looks down he can see that Derek's long eyelashes are moving up and down against the fabric as he's blinking slowly. “I _love_ my job. I love it so much that it is my _life_ now. I honestly have no idea what to do if I'm actually fired.”

When Derek's voice is no longer filling the air, Stiles realizes it's his cue to reply.

“I'm sure you won't be fired. Anyone could be sent to a hospital. And we don't know if it's something serious or not. Until we know anything for sure, you shouldn't be afraid of that issue.”

“But I'm sure no police department wants a colleague diagnosed with epilepsy,” Derek points out.

“We don't yet know if you have it or not. According to the tests, your brain is as healthy as it could be.”

“That means a paradox between my symptoms and how my brain appears on the various machines,” Derek says.

Stiles doesn't say anything to that. He's never been the one good at pep-talks and his mind is blank of what way he should react to that, because he knows that Derek is right and logical.

~

“What could appear as epilepsy, but is not epilepsy in reality?” House asks, rubbing his thumb against his forehead while fixing the gray rug with his unbelievably blue eyes. There is silence among the doctors for a while, but in less than half a minute Chase quits fidgeting with his pen and speaks up.

“A seizure can be triggered by a drug or anesthesia, too,” he looks up at his boss, who's dropping a pill into his mouth. After swallowing it, he nods.

“You,” he says, obviously talking to Chase. “Talk to Hale's co-worker who found him to find out in what condition Hale was in; if his mouth was foaming, but I assume you know what you need to ask,” he narrows his eyes, almost in a suspicious manner, while waiting for a reassurance to his more or less rhetorical question.

“Sure,” Chase answers. “It was in the footnotes after all.” House gives him a faint half smile while the blonde grins back at him with a wide crooked smile.

“Chatterbox, you go and talk to the patient.”

“Why me?” he asks with a confused expression, frowning.

“Why won't you let me be your Cupido?” House fights back with a question. If anything, that makes Stiles blush. “Just let me help your knight in shining armor find you. I heard he was missing you when you weren't there.” Even if Stiles wants to defend himself with sarcasm, his mouth has gone dry. And House is not done with boning him out yet. “Out of us you're the most interested in our perfect little cop. And all these outweigh Thirteen's gender.” Hearing that, the said woman can't help but hide a smile.

“But I'm not even...!” Stiles manages to say, only to be cut off by House.

“I just have to look at your face,” he states. Stiles arches a brow questioningly and runs to the mirror to check himself. He eyes himself for a while before turning around, confused.

“There's nothing on my face.” House nods.

“Indeed. But the fact you checked it prove me right; you wouldn't have rushed to the mirror to see for yourself if you didn't have something to hide.”

Stiles blushes again. Fuck psychology.

~

“This might sound a stupid question,” Stiles begins. “but I need to know: have you ever done drugs?” Derek makes an 'are you for real' face at him which makes Stiles throw his hands up in defense. “Medically relevant question, I'm not some creeper asking you pointlessly about your earlier life, that is of course obviously intimate, I promise,” he babbles.

“Okay, chill out,” Derek says, biting away a smile. “I have never done drugs, never even tried out any.”

“Okay,” Stiles nods, acknowledging the answer. “Any operations in the past?”

“No,” Derek shakes his head.

“Right. Thanks,” Stiles says, already turning around on his heels to abandon the place, however, Derek has something else in mind about that, it would seem.

“Wait,” he says. Stiles halts immediately and looks back at him, half afraid, half excited of what is going to be said between them. “What do you need those data for? Did you and the team figure anything out?” Stiles exhales. He can't decide whether if he should feel relieved or sad about this outcome.

“We assumed your seizures were indicated by drugs or anesthesia. But knowing House, no matter what I tell him of what answers you gave me now, Thirteen and Foreman are going to spend a sad amount of time going over your hospital history while Chase and I are going to make a toxicology test on you. So stay alert and prepare yourself, because we're most likely going to be back in a short while.” Derek grins at him widely, nodding.

“Okay.”


	5. Past issue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter of the plot, including the solution for the medical mystery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'ed.
> 
> Enjoy :)

After finishing the toxicology testing on Derek, Chase leaves for the lab, leaving Stiles and Derek alone.

“So,” Stiles starts to say awkwardly, shuffling his feet around and his gaze fixed stubbornly on the tiled floor. His hands are sunk into his pockets' deepest depths, and he has no idea why he's behaving like this. Like a kid, who's standing in front of his crush.

“Yes?” Derek asks, and Stiles isn't sure whether he should be grateful or feel ashamed of the cop's gentle tone. He braces himself and peeks up in the end, only to see the man's slightly cocked head as he's looking at Stiles like a curious little puppy. Stiles sighs softly.

“I was just wondering... have you started to read the book yet?” he manages out, even surprising himself for succeeding and his tongue not stuttering over the words and itself. Derek nods modestly.

“I have,” he replies. “And it's pretty interesting so far. I can never predict what will happen in the next second, and I like that feeling. I love a book that can keep surprising and amusing me.” For some reason Stiles has a feeling that Derek is no longer talking about the book, but he hushes this thought out and far away from his mind quickly. He doesn't want to get his hopes up. After all, all Derek told him is that he's his haven— _Anchor_ —here in the hospital, and this is going to fade away once he's out of here. He will never think about Stiles again, and they will never meet again, and that should be fine. Stiles should think of this as a one-shot as well. Yes, that is the most definitely the best choice for him.

“I know right,” he says, catching on in the conversation. He really has to concentrate on what he has to say, contrary to other situations where he's babbling around and about anything freely. Now he craves for his filter to stay. “I loved that about the book, too. Its plot is built with surgical accuracy, you'll find it out soon enough. If you'd like, I can bring another book from the author. That one's title is _Blood bank_. Well, both of the books have a little sexual content, but I guess that will be no bother for you. Oh my God, I can't believe I just said that,” he scolds himself, then his eyes widen and his hands fly up to rub his eyes with the heels of his hands in a frustrated way. He inhales an anxious breath then points at the door with his thumb. “I guess I'll just abandon the hypothetical sinking ship now, before my self-embarrassing skills develop sinister measures.” He waits for two beats, just testing waters, wondering if Derek will tell him to stay, but again, he shouldn't get his hopes up. He clenches his lips and looks away, acknowledging the situation with a nod, then turns around. He's halfway out of the door when Derek speaks up.

“Wait,” he says and Stiles immediately peaks back into the room. He looks around as if he wasn't obviously alone there and points at himself.

“Me? Me, wait?” he asks, entering the room again with a few steps. Derek nods.

“I need you,” he says quietly, and that is the point where Stiles realizes that Derek only wants him to stay because of Stiles being his Anchor. He ignores the painful twist of his heart and does his best to focus on the core fact that Derek _needs_ him, even if just for a little while.

Who he is to deny his safety from him?

~

Stiles is sitting on the edge of Derek's bed, while Derek's back is leaning against the wall as his huge pillow is plastered between it and his heavy muscles. They have been talking to each other ever since Stiles didn't feel like a complete idiot anymore, because after then, he started bubbling about random topics and hasn't stopped since.

He's urged to stop, though, when Chase enters the room.

Both of the boys are eying the blonde with curious blinks and Stiles' amber eyes descend lower, to the files the doc is holding in his hands. He points at them and asks his co-worker.

“The result of the toxicology?” Chase nods.

“And?” Derek asks impatiently. His body clearly reflects his anxiety, being his shoulders are all tensed up and his muscles are rigid. Chase hands the papers over to Stiles, who immediately leafs through it to find the result. He ignores the way Derek's face is hovering next to his, and the way his chin is resting on his shoulder after finding the sentence they were both worked up over.

The test is negative.

“What the hell,” Stiles says, looking up at Chase, making a face.

“That's what I thought at first, too,” the man says. “That's why I made the test three more times.”

Stiles knows that four times cannot be a coincidence. His father said so—one's an incident, two's a coincidence, three's a pattern. And what's four? A reliable evidence of Derek not having any issues with drugs.

~

House is circling his office, his blue gaze wandering over the gray rug while his team is sitting at the glass table. They are clueless by now.

“What is it that we're not realizing?” House asks, scratching his forehead with his thumb. His team remains silent. “Come on, you all had a task to do. Chatterbox, you talked to the patient. Chase, you talked to the co-worker. Thirteen and Foreman, you checked the patient's hospital history. _What did you find?_ ” He doesn't look at a particular person, just at the four of them in general. In the end, however, his gaze settles on Chase. The doc sighs.

“I talked to his co-worker. He said that Hale was in an unconscious condition, he didn't know where he was and didn't respond to anything. Also, he mentioned that Hale hardly ate anything that day.” House nods, then looks at Thirteen and Foreman.

“Hale hardly has any hospital history,” the woman speaks up. “Even when he was hospitalized, all the cases were minor; stitching, taking care of bullet wounds. No break of bones, ever.” Last but not in the least, House looks at Stiles expectantly, awaiting for his story.

“He has never done drugs, never even tried out any. Also, he told me he has never had an operation, and he got small doses of anesthesia whenever he was treated. But on the other hand, the last time he was delivered to hospital was over two years ago, so there's not a high chance we can blame the symptoms on that.” House is moving his mouth in awkward ways, thinking through everything that has just been said. He drops his head down, his eyes still brushing over the rug. Eventually, he approaches the table and picks up the data of Derek. He starts to read it out aloud.

“Derek Scott Hale,” he starts. “Works as a crime scene investigator at New Jersey Police Department, started at 2008. Currently twenty-nine years old, green eyes, dark hair. Born in Beacon Hills, moved to New Jersey at 2007. Attended Beacon Hills High School and got his degree at Harvard University, major subject was law. Also got a scholarship. His current relationship status is unknown, but I'm sure it's going to change in a short while, considering all the sexual tension between Chatterbox and our stunning patient,” House says haphazardly and it earns him a disapproving 'hey!' from Stiles. He ignores it and continues reading as if nothing happened. “Divorced, ex-wife's name is Kate Argent. She was arrested for illegal firearm businesses on the black market,” House furrows his eyebrows at the paper then looks up at his team. “Such a tragic story, isn't it? He had to arrest his own wife.” Foreman and Chase are giving him a deadpan face. House shakes his head at them before going on with adding a comment here and there and reading the files. “You are no fun. So where was I? Hale has a pitch black Camaro and despite his sisters and uncle are still alive, he is currently living alone, claiming a flat near NJPD. Rest of his family is deceased, they died in a fire accident while Derek, Laura and Cora were attending their boarding schools. Peter was the only survival there, who only went there to pay a visit to his relatives, also knowing the three children would go home that afternoon so he could see them, too. After then, the remainders of the Hale family were constant patients at several psychologists. Derek had to take antidepressant pills to balance his mind out and to be able to focus on his studies. He stopped with the medicine three and a half years after the accident occurred—” Stiles perks up at that and House trails off as well. They realized the pattern at the exact same time. While the others are still either ogling the lines on the paper or looking up from the papers to see why House stopped reading, Stiles is already pushing his chair backward and he and House make a mad dash to the elevator, practically making a competition out of it.

They make a frantic beeline to Derek's room. When they enter the area they puzzle Derek with their panting and exhaustion. Stiles motions toward House by tilting his head to the side for a moment in sake of introducing him to Derek as well.

“Dr. House, leader of the team,” he says, and Derek looks at the introduced individual. He opens his mouth to ask why the two of them hurried to him all of a sudden, but he decides to just let them speak.

“We know what caused your seizures,” House announces and for some reason it urges Derek's face to turn into a quizzical expression. He looks at Stiles, seeking explanation.

“Well, so, okay,” he stutters, organizing his thoughts awhile. He breathes deeply before continuing to speak. “So, let's start with your morning that day, shall we?” he asks, but of course, it's rhetorical. “So you said you only ate breakfast, which you later puked out here because it was deteriorated. That caused us to think you had encephalitis due to the decreased amount of proteins and leukocytes in your body. Then the seizures started. You had several epileptic seizures during the time you spent in the hospital, and indeed had had one before that, when you were shot. Actually, _before_ you were shot, because the seizure caused you to get shot. So,” he says, starting lose the trail of thought and get lost within his own words. “So the gist is that you had had a tonic-clonic seizure back then. That's why your whole body was paralyzed and also that's the cause why you blacked out.”

“But I'm not epileptic. Not according to the tests,” Derek interjects. Stiles nods and continues speaking.

“True enough. But your seizures were triggered by drugs.” Derek frowns at that.

“I've never taken drugs.”

“But you took antidepressants,” Stiles points out.

“That was over—” Derek starts to say, but he's cut off.

“We know, but your fat tissues store the nutrients you've ever eaten for a long time, which can range from a few days to ten or so years. Since you hardly ate anything that day, and your body needed energy to be able to chase down the suspect, your fat tissues were used to retrieve and provide the strength you used. Also, the amount of adrenaline put your body under sympathetic effect, which accelerated this process.”

“Why was my toxicology test negative, then?”

“Because by the time we did the test, the amount of drugs vanished from your body. And yes, it means you wouldn't have any other seizures now even if you weren't at the hospital in the past few days.”

In an instant, the tension sublimes from Derek's facial muscles. His eyes are commuting between Stiles and House, in the end settling on the grumpy Head of the Diagnostic Department. The doctor holds his gaze for a little while before speaking.

“You're gonna be fine.”

And with that, he limps out of the room.

~

Stiles is sitting on the middle of Derek's bed. He kicked off his shoes a while ago, so he's sitting cross-legged while he's following all of the cop's movements with his amber eyes. Derek is packing his stuff, being half dressed up—he has a pair of jeans and a button-up shirt on him, but latter is still awaiting to be buttoned and he's still barefoot. His tie is lying on the white sheets next to Stiles, which later the intern grabs and starts fidgeting with it.

“Thank you,” Derek says once he's ready. Stiles looks up at him at that, and just shrugs as if solving the case wasn't a big deal.

“You're welcome.” When the man reaches for the tie, Stiles denies to give it to him. Instead, he stands up and steps right in front of Derek. He puts the tie around his neck and begins to make the knot for him. “I'll go to the police department in two weeks. For the book,” he adds as an explanation when he's faced by a confused expression. Derek makes an 'oh' sound to signify him that he got it. “Is that good?” There is silence between the two of them for a short while.

“No,” Derek ends up saying, and Stiles' hand stops on the material. His heart falls at that. He's a hundred percent sure Derek is about to say that he's giving the borrowed book back to him right now, so he doesn't have to visit him later. He _doesn't_ want to see him anymore. Well, of course, Stiles reminds Derek of his dark period of time that he spent at the hospital after all. He steels himself for the rejection only to be surprised. “My number's on the nightstand. Just give me a call. Feel free to do it anytime.” Stiles' eyes widen and he looks up at Derek with those huge amber irises of his.

“Really?” Derek can't help, but smile at that. He nods absentmindedly and locks their gazes together tightly.

“Call me anytime,” he says one last time before stepping out of Stiles' aura. He fixes the knotted tie in his neck then leaves for the car park where Laura and Cora are already waiting for him in his Camaro.

Stiles picks up the note and a wide grin stretches out on his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end of the plot! The last chapter is a really short epilogue-kinda thingie. I hope you'll like it :)
> 
> Also, I'm so proud of this mystery I figured out for the Diagnostic Department. At first I thought it sucked, but my friend, who's attending a medical university, was fascinated by the case I set up for the team, and she liked it and found it interesting and logical and medically relevant. So I'm just so happy. :3


	6. Intruder

“Oh, great,” Stiles complains when he checks his bedside clock. It's 0:37 in the morning and he's unable to fall asleep despite the long hours he spent struggling in his bed to gain unconsciousness. His mind is spinning around the moment Derek left him alone in the hospital room with his promising words and coaxing scent lingering in the air. Stiles is longing for Derek, his hands _itching_ to give him a call, but it's too late. “But he said 'anytime' and that obviously includes one in the morning, right?” Stiles asks himself, totally not ashamed for having a self-conversation. But no, he can't do that. That would be rude. But it's an emergency. And what would happen if someone broke into his house now? Oh God, damn good manners. “Hey,” he says once the dialing tone is cut off. “I hope it's not too late and I didn't wake you up,” he says, being well aware that he sounds like a creep right now.

“No, I was just about to go to bed,” comes Derek's reply, which is not at all pissed and his voice isn't raspy even the tiniest bit. He wasn't sleeping, thank God. “Did something happen?”

“Well, I guess I've just heard something coming from downstairs. You could come and help me out.”

“Damn, a burglar? Speak silently, damn it!” he hisses, scolding Stiles. His voice is no longer as relaxed as it was at the beginning of the phone call. “I'm on my way. I'll call 911, too.”

“Wait, no!” Stiles says. “I think you'll be enough. I only need one strong cop at the moment. My issue is not something that would concern many of your co-workers, I'm pretty sure about that.” There's a half-minute-long silence settled in the conversation. Stiles can literally hear the cogs turning into place in Derek's brain, getting the point in Stiles' request. He can practically _see_ the grin on Derek's face as he speaks.

“That must be pretty uncomfortable. I assume I'd better hurry, otherwise something awful will happen to you.”

“Yes, if you don't want to find my corpse frozen in clotted blood, you need to come here as soon as possible.”

“Just tell me your address.”

And Stiles did just that. In less than five minutes, he welcomes Derek in his apartment. And none of them wastes any more time for words—they let their bodies and instincts take the initiative from now on, starting with a frantic, impatient kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end!
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this little story I wrote :) I didn't get into further details and cut off the story at that point because I rated this 'Teen And Up Audiences', so I couldn't include any more content of that scene. Sorry!
> 
> But for making it up: read the story I posted yesterday. You can find it here: [Derek chooses to chase](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2368622)

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there dear Readers!
> 
> This is my first time to post a work with multiple chapters in a while. I will try to update it regularly, even with school involved. Currently I am a chapter ahead in my writing, so even if I'm too busy with my studies I will still have the opportunity to update.
> 
> I really hope you will like this. I tried to figure out an interesting medical case for the team to investigate with twists and unexpected events. I hope you will like it :)


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